Friday, May 31, 2019

Announcing Santa Barbara Literary Journal, Volume 3: Bellatrix


Santa Barbara Literary Journal
Volume 3: Bellatrix
June 2019

Editrix
Silver Webb

Editors
Laura Hemenway, Mistress of Song
Ron Alexander, the Poetry Baron
Rachael Quisel, Word Wrangler
Señor McTavish, Contributing Editor

Fiction
"Wisdom" by Nate Streeper
"Her Chemical Highness Sets Out" by S.M.C. Wamsteker
"Shutter" by M. M. De Voe
"A Piece of Work" by Diane C McPhail
"Medicine Walk" by Jack Eidt
"The Scream" by Cheri Kramer
"Clap Hands" by Max Talley
"Nano-Dog" by Jeremy Gold
"The Post" by Jesse Krenzel

Humor
"Blessed are the Flesh Eaters" by Zane Andrea
"Lipstick" by Margaux Dunbar Hession
"Express Lane" by Chris Casey Logsdon
"Swimmers" by Melanie Doctors
"In Hand" by D. Avery

Poetry
"St. Gregory’s Abbey" by Isabelle Walker
"Cling" by Perie Longo
"Believer on a Bullet Bike" by Perie Longo
"Asphalt" by Ronald Aden Alexander
"Starters Block" by Ronald Aden Alexander
"Caterpillar to Sparrow" by Isabelle Walker
"El Norte" by Paul Lobo Portugés
"AfterWords" by Cie Gumucio

Lyrics
"Golden" by Dennis Russell
"The Santa Ynez Valley Song" by Randall Lamb
"Mellow" by Burton Jespersen and Patrick Rydman
"Fires" by Mark A. Alciati
"Tectonic Trance" by Sonya Heller
"California" by Dan Bern
"I Won’t Come to California" by Russell Brutsché
"Please, Don’t Come to California" by Natalie D-Napoleon
"Surfliner" by Bryan Titus
"My State of California" by Laura Hemenway

Non-Fiction
"How Do You Keep a Wave Upon the Sand?*" by Ronald Aden Alexander
"Interview with Literary Agent Eric Myers" by Silver Webb
"A review of Come and Get Me by August Norman" by Lorelei Armstrong
"Mountain of Ashes: Interview with John Reed" by Christina Lay
"A Review of Mountain of Ashes: A Cosmic Love Story" by Chris Wozney

Volume 3 will be available for purchase on Amazon on June 8, 2019. And if you'd like to meet some of the authors and experience their writing and music, join us at the Santa Barbara Central Library on June 14, 6-8 p.m. See our Facebook event, here.

Curious about the cover art and our featured artist? June 8th, look for Nicholas Deitch's interview of writer and artist Max Talley, to be published here on the blog.



Friday, May 24, 2019

A Letter from the Excitable Editrix

It is a known fact that I am easily excited. By things like fruity cocktail beverages, grilled cheese, potato salad, potato chips, tater tots, okay pretty much anything that involves a potato...Oh, and good writing too. To wit, you might ask, what am I excited about right now? So glad you asked. Because June is always epic in Santa Barbara, especially at the Lit Jo.

To start off, let it be known that these overly excitable moments have a tendency to end in publications. Usually after one of the above-mentioned fruity beverages. One fateful evening, tipsy and flashing big puppy dog eyes at my editors, I assured them it would be no problem to add an anthology to our planned two volumes of Lit Jo this year. Why not publish it April 1st, I reasoned, plenty of time to produce and print Volume 3 by June, right? Ha. Ha HAH. From February until the end of May I clung to sanity like a three-toed sloth, on a mad burn of Photoshop, InDesign, proofs, and permission slips. My stalwart editors did not abandon ship, although they may have wondered if I was going down like Ahab, cackling and soliloquying about a whale named Moby. But we pulled it off. Volume 2: Cor Serpentis came out in November; Hurricanes Swan Songs is now on Amazon.


And guess what's coming out mid-June? You got it, Volume 3: Bellatrix. On June 8, we will be publishing an interview here of our featured artist, as well as revealing the cover. Who is our featured artist? What does the cover look like? Oh, just you wait, chickadee!

June 14, and this is a biggy, we will be partnering with the Santa Barbara Public Library and holding a reading of Volume 3: Bellatrix at the Faulkner Gallery. Contributors will read fiction, flash, and poetry. And our singer-songwriters will perform. This is a bigger venue than anything we've "played" before and we will be awarding the first ever "Flash Cat" award for best flash submission. See event details on our FB invite here. And while you're there, be sure to like our FB page!


June 15, we're having a Lit Jo house concert. Our Mistress of Song assembled a beautiful collection of songs about California for Volume 3, and Dennis Russell, Sonya Heller, Randall Lamb, Mark Alciati, and Natalie D Napoleon will performing their music. Interested in attending? Email sblitjo at gmail dot com.

June 16 to 21, this is the real fun! Once again it is time for the Santa Barbara Writers Conference! I will be attending the workshops of at least two of our contributors. Matt Pallamary's Phantastic Fiction workshop is legendary for fomenting fantastical tales, and this year, he will be selecting one of his writers to receive the Santa Barbara Literary Journal Phantastic Fiction Award!

Matt June 2018
Contributor Max Talley will be teaching a 3-day workshop on "How and Where to Submit to Literary Magazines and Online." I went last year and found it immensely helpful in getting ready to send short stories out.

Max at his SBWC workshop June 2018
Volume 3 contributor Perie Longo will be teaching her morning poetry workshop and Stephen T. Vessels will be reviewing manuscripts.

The indubitable Mr. Vessels June 2018
In the wee hours of the night, contributors Lorelei Armstrong and John Reed will be leading the aptly named Pirate workshops. And for the first time, I'll be participating on a panel, "4 Authors Celebrate 4 Genres", which will be hosted by Trey Dowell. There is still time to sign up for the conference, so join us if you want to improve your craft and have fun!

What more could possibly happen in June? I'll be walking in the Solstice Parade, as part of the Pink Party. The theme this year is wonder...and if you're wondering what I'll be wearing, just look for the pink top hat and the ruffled pantalettes...If you see a pink flamingo by my side, it might just be the Mistress of Song, because that's how we roll at Lit Jo!

Best,
Silver Webb

Thursday, May 23, 2019

An Excerpt of "My Dinner at the Boy Restaurant" in Hurricanes & Swan Songs

by Shelly Lowenkopf


Ken Cole’s sister swept her hand over the display of papers and photos spread over her kitchen table. “All this stuff. So like you. And so wrong.”

Cole confronted a lifetime of his big sister’s track record of right choices. “I want this to work.”

Cole’s sister offered a raised brow he recognized from the reaches of similar gestures from their history. Not disapproval. Meg didn’t disapprove; not of him. Meg wanted him to succeed.

“And why Perry’s, of all places?” Meg said. “Why not here? That’s a genuine offer. She’s been here before. She knows everyone. “We’re glad to do it because—”

“I know,” Cole said. “You’re happy for me. Your entire family’s happy for me. Means a lot. Really.”

“But?”

“I enjoy details.” Felt his cheeks begin to redden when he let on, “Perry’s? My favorite restaurant.”

Meg sent disappointment his way. Landed with a smack. “Such a boy thing, Perry’s. Stiff drinks, comfort food menu. Elaborate ice cream deserts no one ever orders, except boys who’ve had two or more of the stiff drinks.”

“I want this to go well,” Ken said. “Not like my last disaster.” Grimaced distaste. “I even went to New York for—”

“I saw the box,” Meg said. “Not surprised you’d think to go to New York for it. You could have bought local.” With her own, more emphatic sweep of the hand, she made an arc over the photos, pamphlets, and documents spread over the kitchen table. “Why do I suspect of all this—”

“Preparation,” Ken said.

“Evidence,” Meg said. “Except we’re not talking courtroom trial here. You seem to have forgotten a vital consideration. Does Maddy like Perry’s?”

“Why would you ask that?”

“You’re lawyering up on me, Little Brother. Does Maddy like Perry’s? Not a tough question. Have you ever taken her there?”

“We usually go to Stella Mare or Bouchon.”

“But not Perry’s?”

“Geez, Meg.”

“Never mind ‘Geez, Meg.’ There are three kinds of restaurants, boy restaurants, girl restaurants, and neutral ground restaurants. Perry’s is a boy restaurant. Have you ever taken Maddy to Petit Valentien?”

“Geez, Meg.”

“Boy restaurants mean something different to a girl.” She paused to let this sink in. Reminded him of earlier times, her how-to-get-along-with-girls lectures when he needed advice.

“You want things to go the way you hope, bring her here.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Missed your true calling, Ken.”

“How’s that?”

“You may ace it as a lawyer, but in your heart, you’re always conducting orchestras. You’re a control freak in a tuxedo.”

Okay, maybe Meg’s approach had merit. He did over-plan. And she knew it. Still cherished the Zippo lighter gift from Meg, back when he smoked. Had part of the text of Occam’s razor engraved on the side. The simplest solution is the best solution. So, away with the clumpy pocket file of honeymoon cruises, the photos of places they might live while searching for a starter home. The drape of his jacket sighed in relief without them. Meg always made sense. Give a nod to her bias about Perry’s, but Perry’s could take care of itself.

Okay, then. Nothing but the neat little blue box from Tiffany, containing the engagement ring. Hardly made his jacket pocket bulge. She might even notice, make the variation on the old Mae West joke, “Looks like you’re glad to see me.”

Hummed to the radio during the drive to Maddy’s. Comforting, the way Bach got such a rich effect from a Brandenburg Concerto. No frills. All the instruments contributing.

Bounded up the steps to Maddy’s door. Overcome with the effect of her when she greeted him. Even in a pantsuit, she radiated. “Wow,” he said.

“You wore a tie,” Maddy said.

“I wanted this evening to be special.”

“Special,” she said. Was that a flicker of suspicion? “You didn’t tell me where we’re going.”

“Perry’s,” he said. When he opened the car door for her, couldn’t tell from her reply, “Oh, boy.” Or “Hoo boy.”

In the car, Maddy said, “ I wasn’t expecting Perry’s.”

Fired up the BMW. Didn’t quite burn rubber when he pulled off, but the squeal of acceleration sounded like a cheer. “Yeah, Perry’s. Special place.”

“I can tell from the way you drive.”

~***~


Perry’s. Generous sprawl of a steakhouse restaurant, stuck in the rear of a strip mall off upper State Street. Local legend had the mall named after a lovesick Italian stonemason, name of Loreto. Nice if true. Suited Ken’s mood.

Gave his name, reservation time to the hostess.

“Aw, sorry, Mr. Cole. Should have told you when you called. We keep our booths for parties of four or more—” Stopped when she saw Maddy. “Miss Dunn. Didn’t realize it was for you. He shoulda said. Happy to seat you wherever you’d like. So nice to see you again.”

“Whoa,” Ken said. “You never said you’d been here before.”

“You never asked.”

On their way to the booth, “Hey,” Ken said. “You okay? You seem—”

“What?” she slid into the booth. “What do I seem?”

Slid in next to her. Bumped the pocket with the ring against her. “Abstracted.”

“That’s good, Ken. Really good. Abstracted.”

“Hey,” he said. “What gives?”

Man in a dark suit, curly white hair, stood before them. No clip-on tie for him. Hand-tied bow. He presented a champagne bottle. “Miss Dunn,” he said. “So nice you’re here. The moment I saw you, I went back for this. Nothing elaborate. A California champagne. Our complements. I’ll have your waitress serve it.” Nodded to Ken as though an afterthought. Backed away.

“Wow,” Ken said. “Champagne. I was going to order. And some shrimp appetizers.” Motioned to the waitress. Felt that inner wave of confidence crest. On our way to Mr. and Mrs. Cole. Start of a tradition. Anniversary dinners for two, in this booth.

“That what you were thinking, Ken? Champagne and shrimp. That how you were going to start this?”

Motioned to the waitress again. “I get it now. Maybe I wasn’t so secretive, after all. You read me. You guessed.” He reached to pat her arm. “Can’t hide anything from you. I really like it that you saw.”

“Then let’s get right to it, okay, Ken?” Withdrew her arm from his touch. “Fuck the champagne. Fuck the shrimp.” Started probing her purse. Found her cell phone. “In fact, fuck you.” Started thumbing a number.

“What’s going on here? What gives?”

“You brought me here to dump me. Okay, I’m dumped. Now, I’m calling Uber to pick me up.”

....to find out what gives, please read the rest of Shelly's story in Hurricanes & Swan Songs, available on Amazon.



Shelly Lowenkopf lives, writes, and teaches in Santa Barbara. Former editor-in-chief of four book publishers; ran the LA office for what was then Dial, Dell, Delacorte Press. Had an editorial hand in three genre magazines and one literary journal. Reviewed fiction for major metropolitan dailies, taught at graduate, undergraduate levels for thirty-five years. Did all this with a BA and abundant chutzpah.

Thursday, May 9, 2019

An Excerpt of "Nutritional Value" in Hurricanes & Swan Songs: A Strange Anthology

by Lisa Lamb

"Shoes" by Grace Rachow

Alice was nervous. Pulling into a parking space outside the restaurant where she’d agreed to meet him, she saw on the glowing dashboard clock that she was a full fifteen minutes early. Should she go in and get herself a steadying drink? Should she drive around listening to NPR until the appointed time? Or should she just go home and pretend that she had forgotten the meeting altogether?

If she did that, she could heat up some soup, drink a glass of Sauvignon blanc, and watch an episode of Masterpiece Theatre with her pants unbuttoned instead of making polite chitchat with a relative stranger. Doubtless he’d be affronted and wouldn’t bother trying to reschedule, a notion so appealing that Alice very nearly put the car into reverse there and then. But she didn’t. She was not the sort to stand a person up; she’d been raised with better manners. Also she was more than a little afraid of what her daughter would say.

She could already hear Clara’s exasperated voice castigating her for her cowardice and lack of gumption. Clara was very keen on self-improvement, particularly as it pertained to her mother, and rarely tired of suggesting the myriad ways in which it might be achieved. Alice suspected that Clara’s motives were more about restoring her mother to a state where she could be comfortably ignored than any real understanding of what might increase her overall happiness. Nonetheless, Alice was grateful for the attention. Tiresome though it was to listen to her only child’s earnest badgering, she preferred it to the sound of the telephone not ringing at all.

Clara’s latest obsession for her mother was Internet dating. At first Alice had flatly refused even to countenance the idea, but after several months of being cajoled and harangued by Clara, it had just seemed easier to let herself be signed up for “Senior Mingle” than to continue her resistance. The name alone filled Alice with a sort of scornful despair, conjuring up as it did images of bewildered pensioners playing festively inappropriate parlour games. Oh well, she reasoned; she didn’t actually have to use the site. Surely she would gain some respite merely as a result of her capitulation?

This proved a miscalculation, however, as Clara immediately turned her attention to pestering her mother with suggestions for specific potential matches. It hadn’t occurred to Alice that Clara might also be able to search the profiles of available men, and while Alice was absolutely certain that none of them could possibly be of any interest, Clara was equally assured that almost any of them would do.

“What about this guy?” she’d say, pointing to the profile of some beaming, bald-headed hopeful. “Or this one?”

If Alice demurred, and she always did, Clara would castigate her for being preemptively judgmental.

“Really, Mom! Don’t be so picky! At this rate you’ll never find a new love!”

But Alice didn’t want a new love. She had been perfectly content with the old one until he’d selfishly expired of cancer at the ridiculous age of fifty-eight. It had been two years since Jim had died, and Alice was still exhausted from nursing him through a long and brutal decline. She’d been in her late forties when he’d received the diagnosis, and she’d still had her youthful figure and a glossy dark bob. By the time he’d finally slipped away, his body shriveled and his mind ravaged by morphine and disease, Alice had put on all the weight he’d lost and her hair was as steely as her heart. She no longer felt a part of the functioning, emotional world and honestly didn’t think she could manage a relationship any more intimate or demanding than the one she had with the cat. Even that was a little tiring, with its litter box and fussy, changeable palate. But Clara was adamant and eventually Alice agreed to contact the least offensive looking of the prospective candidates.

Alice had not been on many dates in her life, and certainly none in the current century. She’d married Jim straight out of college in 1980; a trajectory more in keeping with her parents’ generation than her own. But young Alice had not been interested in going to discos, backpacking around Europe, or hooking up with gel-haired Lotharios. An unpleasant, if hazy, experience at a frat party her freshman year complete with copious vomiting and a shameful stain on her underwear had cemented her desire for lifelong security and stability. All Alice had wanted after that was for everything to be normal. Safe.

She’d switched majors from pre-med to English lit., giving up her girlhood dream to be a flying doctor with Doctors Without Borders, and accepted first an invitation to dinner, and subsequently one for marriage from kind, plodding, unassuming, reliable Jim. Not a small part of her affection for her husband was the implied promise that she’d never have to get “out there” again. Alice was fully prepared to swap excitement and imagination for steadfast affection and the knowledge that he’d never let her down.

Yet he had. Here she was, all alone with nobody to clean the gutters, take out the trash, or warm her feet against on chilly nights. There was no one to nod and not really listen while she told him she was thinking of getting her hair cut short, or about that nice young man who’d held the door for her at the library which was so rare in this day and age, didn’t he think? Jim had never been much of a talker, but since he was gone, the silence in the house had a solemn, almost hostile quality that was notably different from the comfortable, receptive quiet of his presence. Not that this made Alice any keener to meet someone new. She managed her loneliness by keeping the radio on at all times and talking to the cat who, truth be told, was just as disinterested in her day as Jim had been but had less compunction about walking out on her mid-sentence. Slightly less, anyway.

Alice looked at the clock again. She’d been dithering for ten minutes and was now only five minutes early. Deciding it was too late to back out now, she resolved to pretend a stomachache after the first drink and that way she could truthfully tell Clara she’d met the prospective suitor, and still spend most of the evening at home. Clara was bound to phone twenty minutes in to check up on her anyway. It was getting hard to tell who was the parent these days.

Pushing open the door of the restaurant, Alice was greeted by the hostess, a heavily made-up, mature woman in jeweled, plastic spectacles, black slacks, and a white shirt.

“Can I help you, hon?”

Suppressing irritation at the diminutive term of familiarity, Alice gave her a frosty smile and said she was meeting someone.

“Do you have a reservation, hon?”

Alice didn’t know. She certainly had not made a reservation—wasn’t that the man’s job? She realized she’d forgotten to ask her date whether they’d be at a table or at the bar. Or even how she’d recognize him. All she could remember from his profile was that his hair was grey and he’d been smiling. Which, as she scanned the room, was a description that fit almost every male present. In fact everyone in the entire establishment, staff included, appeared to be well over sixty, which put Alice at the very youngest end of the demographic. Could it be that dating in the second half of life was actually just like eating at a retirement home? Unbearable. Alice decided instantly to leave.

Turning quickly toward the door, she yanked it open as hard as she could and immediately bumped into a gentleman who had been trying to open it from the other side.

“I’m so sorry!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t see you there.”

“No, no, it’s my fault. I was in a rush,” she apologized, eyes on the door as she attempted to sidle around him. It was imperative to make as swift and unobtrusive an exit as possible before her date spotted her.

“Say, you’re not Alice, are you?”

Too late. Alice’s heart sank, then lifted for a wild second as she considered simply lying and running away. But her upbringing pipped her impulse to the post.

“Oh. Yes. Hello,” she said, stupidly.

“Well, hello there!” he enthused. “John Elliot. Good to meet you in the flesh. You know,” he chuckled, “for a moment there I thought you were trying to stand me up!”

....How do John Elliot and Alice fare on their date? You'll have to read for yourself! Hurricanes & Swan Songs is available on Amazon:


And on May 12, 2019, at 3-4 p.m., Lisa will be reading from her story, along with Ted Chiles, Chella Courington, Shelly Lowenkopf, and Stephen T. Vessels.


Lisa Lamb was born and raised in the UK, where she had her first career as a pop star. She has written multiple global hit songs (published by Warner Chappell) and worked as a copywriter for a big branding agency. She has also owned her own audio branding business, published a nonfiction book on stellar nucleosynthesis, and is currently teaching K-6 music in a Santa Barbara public elementary school.

Saturday, May 4, 2019

An Excerpt of "Closing Credits" from Hurricanes & Swan Songs

by Dennis Russell

"Steel Guitar" byViolet Sayre


“Under blue El Rancho skies
The morning air is fine
We’ll head out on that trail
Friend by friend, side by side

New adventures we will find
Open pastures we will ride
where the streams and rivers wind
under blue El Rancho skies”

—First Verse of “Blue El Rancho Skies,” 
opening theme from El Rancho film and television series


Carlos Garcia pulled open the door of Gary’s Steakhouse and Grill and stepped inside. He took off his sunglasses and put them in his jacket pocket, and paused for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the dim barroom light. He grimaced and waved off the hostess at the front desk and took a quick scan around the front dining room and bar. Every booth and barstool was red diamond-tufted Naugahyde, and the floor was covered in green short-pile carpet. “Gary’s” was spelled in blue stained glass in the lamps above every table. Carlos flashed a smile and waved hello to Darla, who had been working at Gary’s since the place was established in 1959.

She must be the oldest waitress in any diner in any town, Carlos thought. Darla didn’t wave back. She never waved back. He quickly walked through the archway to the second, larger dining room, decorated with historic photographs of the city of St. Hervé and some of its famous residents, and kept on to his final destination. He pushed open the stained-glass doors of El Rancho Sky Room and shut the door that separated the monthly meeting of Los Hermanos Benéficos from the regular patrons of the restaurant.

Most patrons of Gary’s never saw the inside of El Rancho Sky Room, but it was a quite familiar place to Carlos. To his left was the restroom for the exclusive use of El Rancho Sky Room patrons. The next third of the wall was lined with La Cantina, the oak bar that served the banquet room guests. For Los Hermanos Benéficos meetings, the top-shelf liquor was moved to the bottom shelf, as most of the members displayed their financial status through upscale alcohol. Carlos winked and shot his index finger gun-like at the bartender and went straight to the end of the bar, where five chafing dishes held today’s Benéfico buffet. One dish was filled with cheese enchiladas (for the vegetarians), another dish was filled with buffalo chicken wings, the third held slices of tri-tip, the fourth held miniature versions of Gary’s “world renowned” ham and cheese sandwiches, and the fifth contained Gary’s “famous” Hot Tots potatoes (tater tots with bacon and jalapenos). Neither of the world famous dishes were really very well known outside the doors of Gary’s.

There are varying degrees of fame, Carlos thought, as he used the stainless steel tongs to transfer some of the famous wings and Hot Tots onto his tiny plate. A few feet past the end of the bar was a round table where Carlos grabbed a slice of sourdough bread, a pat of butter, and a small paper ramekin with Gary’s special salsa. For those, like Carlos, who didn’t imbibe expensive liquor, there were glasses of water and iced tea. For the sloppy, there were extra napkins. Carlos grabbed a few.

Buffalo wings are pretty sloppy eating, thought Carlos. Before stepping away from the table, he reached down and took a few more. The drunken members of Los Hermanos Benéficos were always bumping into somebody, and with the tiny plates and strong drinks, there was a good chance of getting sauce on your shirt.

Besides the restroom, the bar, the round bread table, the carefully arranged dining tables with red and white tablecloths, and chairs to seat Los Hermanos Benéficos, the rest of the décor was a shrine to Los Hermanos Benéficos founder, Cal Evans. Everyone in the world knew the first verse of the theme song to the western series El Rancho. Between the years of 1952 and 1959, Cal Evans’ voice yodeled it over the opening credits of 125 Sunday night television episodes and five feature films. Cal was the last and the biggest of the Singin’ Cowboys. He was a true icon: a nostalgic symbol of the American West, representing the mythological chivalrous code of the courageous, courteous cowpoke.

A glass shadowbox displayed a pair of fringed tan leather gloves that Cal wore in one season of the TV show, alongside a pearl-handled Colt 45 revolver in a tooled leather holster, a Cal Evans lunchbox, a deck of Cal Evans playing cards, and three different Cal Evans collector badges that had only been available in select boxes of El Rancho Rings breakfast cereal. Next to the case was a beautifully seasoned brown leather saddle, the actual one that Cal swung on to the back of his horse Mercury at the beginning of every ride. Intricate hand-tooled roses and vines offset silver and turquoise inlay.

Carlos had been a huge fan of Cal Evans and El Rancho when he was a kid. He and his father watched reruns every Saturday morning. He thought it was worth donating his time to be the accountant for Los Hermanos Benéficos just to be able to marvel at the saddle once a month. Even better, hovering like a halo above the saddle and the case was one of Cal’s grey felt ten-gallon cowboy hats, with a beaded band that also contained a fair amount of turquoise and silver. Carlos glanced over to a modest corner that displayed the poncho, sombrero, and fake oversized moustache of Cal’s comedic sidekick, Pedro “Pappy” Sanchez.

The other walls of El Rancho Sky Room were lined with enormous photographs, mostly group photos, taken during the yearly Los Hermanos Benéficos charity horse rides and parades. Cal Evans and Pappy Sanchez were central figures in most of them. Carlos had never been on one of the rides. He was more of a desk jockey than any kind of vaquero. Looking at the photos, though, he could imagine the ride: the smells of leather, horse shit, beer, whiskey, and barbecue.

Carlos stood, studying the photographs one-by-one while eating his wings and tots. By looking at them sequentially, he felt he was looking at a time lapse photo of these men’s lives. A single moment stood out to Carlos, blown up, poster-sized, glass-covered, and wood -framed. A small plaque below that particular picture bore the etched words “Music on the Trail.” Though he had seen it many times, today for some reason, this photo particularly intrigued him. It made him think of the bridge to the song “Blue El Rancho Skies.”

“Out on the breeze, there’s a pretty melody
If you hear it, come on, sing along
We’ve got no cares, just some stories to share
And a place where we all belong.”

Carlos looked deeper and deeper into the photograph, trying to join with the black-and-white images behind the glass. There were several men in it. Cal was there with his guitar, singing. An unknown, hatless cowboy plucked a banjo. A plate of fried chicken and a few beer bottles sat on a barrel head. Carlos settled his eyes on a man in the foreground, in profile, squeezing an accordion. Carlos studied the face of “Pappy” Sanchez. He mimicked the beaming smile Cal’s co-star always had when he was playing accordion and singing. Carlos shuffled closer to the glass of the photo, his own face superimposed its reflection on the glass. It was as if he was there among them. Carlos also saw in the reflection the one remaining buffalo wing on his plate; it looked as if was stacked with the fried chicken in the photo. Feeling like a cowboy on the trail, he heartily took an enormous bite out of it.

Just at that moment, Justin Clay passed by on his way from the restroom back to his seat. He slapped Carlos’s back and said “You hear music out of that, dude? Isn’t that the best kind of accordion? The silent kind?” Justin laughed at his own joke all the way to back to the table where all the car-dealing Los Hermanos Benéficos sat.

With Justin’s slap, the bite of buffalo wing shifted from Carlos’s mouth to the back of his throat and wedged there. He tried a quick cough to dislodge it, but no luck. The sauce was dripping into his trachea and started to burn. He gave a couple of coughs with no better luck. He hurried to grab a glass of water from the banquet table. He downed it. Still stuck. He downed another. Still no luck and the water caused more sauce to dilute and drip further down his windpipe, causing it to burn even more. He grabbed a napkin and coughed into it. Nothing came up.

Does Carlos ever make it out of El Rancho Room? Dennis will be reading and *singing* May 7th at Chaucer's Books in Santa Barbara, 7-8 p.m., along with Max Talley and Nicholas Deitch. We promise we're not serving chicken wings! Join us for strange tales, refreshements, and oh yes, cake!


Hurricanes & Swan Songs also available at Amazon here.


Santa Barbara-based singer-songwriter Dennis Russell has released 5 albums: My Little World, Primitive-Acoustic-Sensitive-Singer-Songwriter-Type-Guy, Golden, 7 of Townes, and Plain: Primitive-Acoustic-Sensitive-Singer-Songwriter-Type-Guy, Too. He has also self-published a book of short stories, That Fourth of July, and a book of poetry, Surfer Songs. For concert dates and recordings, visit dennisrussellroad.com


Thursday, May 2, 2019

An excerpt of "Ghost Moose of Clary’s Cafe"

by Nicholas Deitch

"Moose" by Grace Rachow

His father would not approve. But then, his father had been dead for forty years, and the killer looked down on William Jeffers from a place of dubious honor. Thin spider trails laced the antlers, and someone had managed to land a bowler hat on the great beast’s head, and at a rakish tilt. From beneath the bowler, Moose glared at him with familiar disdain.

Jeffers looked away. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit, Moose. Let me enjoy my beer in peace.”

The bartender wiped the counter with a slight shake of his head.

“Don’t judge me, kid. A man oughta be able to enjoy his beer without some scornful Moose looking down on him with that damn judgmental smirk.” He swallowed the last gulp and set the glass down hard. He glanced up, and the beast winked at him.

“I didn’t say anything, Mr. Jeffers. But there’s plenty of seats in this place, and you always sit in that one and complain about that moose staring at you.” The bartender grabbed the glass and pulled the tap, amber bubbles rising to a foamy head. “And aren’t you the one who gave that thing to old man Clary in the first place?”

Jeffers sighed. “You’re new here, kid, but you oughta know. That’s not just some rustic bit of bar decor molting on the wall.” He looked up at Moose and tipped his glass. “Some would tell you he was a great Mohican Chief. A spirit warrior, with a slight chip on his shoulder.” Jeffers took a long gulp and finished his third beer. “But Chief or not, this is my stool, and I’m not about to move my sorry ass on account of this goddammed Moose. He had it coming, and he knows it. I was there.”

***

Forty years. Well, forty-two to be precise. He’d been to Vermont for a family visit, and he’d found himself traipsing the backwoods with his cantankerous old man. They were going to bag a real trophy, an elusive old bull that had become his father’s obsession. Jeffers had heard the stories. Tales of the sightings, the near misses. The startling size of the animal, which seemed to grow with every telling. And don’t forget the taunting.

“Really, Pop? A taunting moose?” Maybe. Or maybe the old man was just losing it. Whatever the truth, this wasn’t just another hunting trek. This was personal.

It took them a full day to make their way in, well past the last of the cabins and lodges in the outer reaches of the Long Trail Forest. Woods that had been home to the Algonquian people for thousands of years. Woods that, despite the intrusion of the white man, still lay mostly undisturbed.

When they finally stopped to make their camp, the sun had already slipped beyond the trees. Jeffers built a fire, and the old man opened a couple of cans of Hunstworth’s Stew. About as close to dog food as a body could fear to come, but the old guy loved the stuff. And Jeffers had to admit, when the can sat on a fire for more than a few minutes, the aroma could be oddly alluring.

They ate in quiet, listening to the crackle of the fire and the sounds of the nocturnal woods awakening around them. In the light of the flames, the old man’s grizzled face seemed near to mythic, creased with years lived through many winters and a whole lot of mostly unnecessary tribulation.

Why, for instance, were they out here in the first place? Hunting some fabled beast that, if he existed at all, likely didn’t give a fiddler’s cuss about the old man and his obsessive pursuit.

“I almost had him, Willy.” At the last mouthful of stew his father set the can down and nodded to the fire. “Three years ago, I had him in my sights, not sixty feet out.” The old man leaned in. “I raised my gun and the beast looked right at me. He gave me a nod, and I’ll be damned if he didn’t smile.”

Jeffers shrugged and poked at the fire. He’d heard this all before.

“Not a nice, friendly smile. Was more like a sneer.”

“You were about to plug him, Pop, with a Creedmore six and a half. You expect him to wave and say, ‘Howdy’?”

The old man turned to him. “I’ve been hunting these woods all my life, and I never once saw a moose smile. It was a mean smile. The kind that says, ‘You’d better watch out, cause I’m coming for you.’ I had him, I swear it. I pulled the trigger, and the son of a bitch just stood there sneering at me. And then he was gone.”

He gazed up through the trees, at the branches that danced in the firelight. “How the hell does a bull like that just disappear? Unless he’s a ghost.” He reached into his pack and brought out his hunting flask. He took a long swallow and handed it to Jeffers. “I’ve tracked that bastard Moose for years. He remembers me, Willy. I swear it. He knows who I am.”

“So, we’re dealing with an angry, vengeful moose here, eh, Pop?” Jeffers scratched himself and sucked on the flask and handed it back to his father.

“I hear your doubt, son. But I grew up on this land, and my papa before me. He knew these woods as well as any Indian. And he knew their stories. This land has its spirits and its ghosts.” He took another swig. “He’s a trickster, that Moose. And I will not be made a fool. Come first light, I’m gonna find him and take him down, and you’re gonna help me do it.”

They finished the flask between them. Then they readied their rifles, tidied the camp, and unrolled their mats by the fire, waiting for sleep. It wasn’t long before he could hear the old man snoring. Jeffers lay in the fire’s glow, looking up through the branches at the stars that winked in the nighttime sky. And soon he, too, fell asleep.

***
The crack of wood broke the night, and Jeffers sat up, peering into the darkness. Beside him the fire glowed dim through the whisper of the dying embers. His father lay nearby, snoring softly.

Jeffers reached for his flashlight and swept the beam around the camp. Nothing but the black of night beyond the trees. He set the flashlight down and laid back on his mat, and closed his eyes, and tried to still his breathing.

An owl hooted far away. Something touched his shoulder, and Jeffers sat up. “Pop?” His heart kicked in his chest.

The old man snored on. He reached again for his flashlight, and shone the beam over his shoulder, and back through the trees. A shadow passed, dark and uncertain. And then, stillness. An odd stench in the air.

“Pop, wake up.” Jeffers took hold of his rifle. “Wake up, Pop. There’s something out there.”

“Huh?” The old man sat up, stupid from sleep and whiskey, his eyes wide and hair gone wild. “What is it, boy?” He grabbed at his own flashlight and waved the beam about.

“Might be your friend, the Moose. Might just be a coon.”

The old man was up and at his rifle. “Ain’t no friend of mine, that one.” He took a few short steps and stopped, listening to the woods. The snap of a branch some yards away. “Get up, boy. That ain’t no coon.”

“Maybe a bear.” Jeffers rolled off his mat and trailed his father. The beams of their lights pierced the woods. The shadow crossed ahead, rising up through the trees.

“Damn. That sure as hell weren’t no bear.” The old man pushed forward with his rifle held ready.

Jeffers stepped into his father’s tracks, the air around them rank and wild. Beside the trail, the world seemed to fall away.

Another crack of wood, this one to their left. Jeffers swung around and caught the beast in his light, huge antlers and nostrils flared, standing like a man....


...You know how it ends for the moose...or do you?
Nicholas Deitch's "Ghost Moose of Clary Cafe" is one of thirteen strange tales told in Hurricanes & Swan Songs: A Strange Anthology, a Santa Barbara Literary Journal Production.

Want to hear how it ends? Nick will be reading May 7th at Chaucer's Books in Santa Barbara, 7-8 p.m., along with Max Talley and Dennis Russell. Join us for more of the moose, and oh yes, cake!

Hurricanes & Swan Songs also available at Amazon here.


Nicholas Deitch is a writer, teacher, architect, and activist. Originally from Los Angeles, California, he now lives in Ventura, with his wife, Diana. He is an annual participant at the Santa Barbara Writer’s Conference. He has been published in the London literary journal, Litro, and is currently writing his first novel, Death and Life in the City of Dreams, a story about a dying city and those who struggle to save it. 

Grace Rachow is an artist, a dog lover, and the director of the Santa Barbara Writers Conference. She has worked as an editor, writer, and freight handler. Her photographs grace the cover and the insides of Hurricanes & Swan Songs.